The Find
by ashbuscus
Summary: Before the great he-who-shall-not-be-named showed up, Scotland Yard took at least weeks to solve one murder. Now with their vicious quadruple murder, they need all the help that they can get. Even if it means recruiting Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Were any days good days for Gregory Lestrade?

It started out with the boring, usual stuff at Scotland Yard, 2005. Filling out paper work. Listening to complaints. Receiving call after call about things ranging from coffee sizes and preferrances to a vicious quadruple murder in underground Brixton. Getting yelled at by Dimmock and taking the shit for every little mistake his officers made. All very mundane. All very annoying.

It wasn't like he tried to finish his work quickly, but he did.

It always came around to sitting around with his feet propped up on the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, drinking his coffee with a doughnut in hand.

"Sir." Donovan sighed at the look of Gregory sitting in his chair, as she always found him, when she popped her head into the small office that Lestrade was occupying.

He sighed, taking a bite of his doughnut. "What now, Sally?" He asked, uncrossing his ankles taking his legs down and sitting properly at his desk. This was the third time she'd been in his office today. The new officers at Scotland Yard always had questions, always eager to impress.

Sally looked down, twisting her lips to the side, thinking of what to say to make sure she didn't mess anything up. "You are needed to head to Brixton at the moment. We have a source about the multiple shooting that took place yesterday evening." She said, keeping her head held high as she wanted to keep up her apperance as what she thought to be, strong.

Lestrade nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "This source? Is it 'he-who-shall-not-be-named?" He asked, muffling a burp with his hand. "S'cuse me."

He-who-shall-not-be-named was their source for many of things. Always called in whenever he had information, but never gave a name. He always helped then disappeared until the next time they were desperate. Never could track him down because the payphone was what he used to call in. He was the joke of Scotland Yard. Most people denied his existance.

Donovan walked fully into the office now, keeping her correct posture. She shuffled with the file in hand, looking down at it before looking back up at her superior. "We don't have a name, yet. We have been in contact with this particular male in the past. Helping us with many different cases." She said, still trying to act her very best.

Greg nodded. "Alright. Where is he?" He asked, standing up and stretching slightly. He yawned. Very mundane. Very boring.

"Underground Brixton, he says. He insists on helping. Apparenltly a witness." She said, looking about the small room.

"Isn't he /always/ a witness?" He said as he pulled on his jacket that was hanging over the back of his chair, looking down to the desk of scattered papers. He could take care of that later. Anything to keep him from being home with his horrid wife.

Sally ignored the question, trying to figure out if it was more rhetorical. "Do we know where we're going? If this guy isn't some lunatic, luring us in?" He asked, heading out of the room, taking the file out of Sally's arms in one swift motion.

She followed him close behind like an obedient dog. "Well, the Vauxhall Arches. He said he'd meet us there. Used a payphone to call in, like always. Same one that was used to _report_ the shooting." She nodded. "If he is some sort of... Mad pshycopath, we've got our bullet proof vests and guns-"

"I know what we have." Lestrade practically groaned, heading down the stairs and out to the police cars.

{=-=}

Sherlock sat against the wall, his ratty clothing smelling foul. Three weeks ago he stole them off of a sleeping man on the bench right out of his cart that he had been wheeling around.

There was still a faint smell of blood in the air. Thankfully, where he had his own area in the darkness of their hideaway was not in the exact area of the shooting.

He was craving. Wanting. Needing. He needed to use, right now. He let his head fall back against the cold, concrete wall as he took a sharp breath, trying to calm himself down from the thumping in his chest. He wanted to use, right now. It was a shame that he finished the last of his stash with Raz two days ago.

The shrouds of layer after layer of clothing hung off of him, like clothing set out to dry on a wire. He hadn't eaten in a week and a half. Not by choice. Sherlock was practically just skin and bones at this point. He kept telling himself that it was an experiment. He was debating emerging from the underground long enough to pickpocket some stranger's wallet in need of food and drugs.

But his mind was more so focused on the drugs.

He had taken some coins from Raz to use to call the police. He figured, if he was going to do anything, he might as well do something he was good at.

This was the sevententh time he'd callen the police to talk to them about some sort of murder or break in or robbery. He had even made sure that an elderly woman's husband was executed of his murder trial in Florida.

He saw everything like a map inside of his head. He'd heard things from the other members of what he liked to call, 'the homeless network', or his 'family', and received his information from them. He'd stand outside the police tape lines at crime scenes, already knowing most of the information they were looking for.

What could he say? He was good at it.

Since he was not an ametur of helping Scotland Yard out of their depth, and since they relied on him when the cases were tough to call in and give as much information as possible, he had a good shot at something. Either a job or some sort of pay. Whatever it was, he'd be happy with it.

{=-=}

"Hey, man." Raz sang as he stepped over people sleeping on the wet, dirty concrete floor. "Got ya something you might like." He smirked, tossing him a small, plastic bag.

Sherlock grabbed it out of mid air, eyeing it. He raised an eyebrow at Raz, his only friend in the underground. Only friend in general, really. "Where'd you get this?" He asked quickly, looking him up and down. "Oh. You snuck it off some sleeping junkie, didn't you?" He asked as Raz sat down next to him.

"Might've. But I got you it, didn't I? I think I deserve a thanks." He shrugged, looking at Sherlock's messy, black hair.

Sherlock gave him a look, saying /really?/.

"A congratulations?" He shot for, but not getting it. "I know, I know. Keep dreaming." He sighed with a smile.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Took the words right out of my mouth."

Together, Sherlock and Raz used what he scored, just like a normal day. Side by side in the darkness of what they both called 'home'.


	2. Chapter 2

Gregory arrived at the Vauxhall Arches a bit later, not in a particular rush. Although, he was looking forward to seeing who this mystery man who had been helping them out for the past year was. His team walked in, consisting of himself, Sally Donovan, Michael Dimmock, and a few other officers. They shined lights on a few of the homeless people as they were wrapped up in blankets and laying on the dirty floor.

"Excuse me?" Lestrade called out. "I'm looking for... Who was the one that called us here?" He said, looking around at all the people staring back at them.

"It was me." A deep voice said, coughing slightly. Sherlock stood up with Raz next to him, graffiting something on his wall with his stolen spray paint. He took a long drag of his cigarette he had in hand and walked to where the officers were.

Gregory looked the man up and down. He had dark, blood coated, knotty, curly hair. He was quite tall, but very lanky. Greg wasn't sure there was any sort of body underneath what was hanging off of him. "And you are...?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He nodded, looking around at the officers. "I've been the one helping you all out for the past..." He stopped and took another drag, thinking. "Ten months, Two weeks, and five days." He said quickly, letting his arm dangle from his side, twisting the cigarette back and forth through his fingers.

Sally raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down. "Sherlock Holmes." She repeated, nodding. She tried not to look too judging.

Sherlock looked her up and down as well. "So you're new in Scotland Yard. Four months it would seem. Oh, and you've already got yourself a little crush." He nodded simply, looking back to Greg. "And you've been there... What? 26 and a half years? Slowly climbing the totem pole. Very slow." He added.

"27, actually. How did you-"

Sherlock groaned slightly, rolling his eyes. "I didn't know. I saw. Simple observation." He said, looking around at all the people staring at them. "Would you rather we move this to a more... Private location?" He asked with a slight cough, already walking away.

Lestrade looked around to his team, baffled. He had no idea how he just did that. Dimmock shrugged, taking another look around. He saw Raz spray painting the already paint covered section of wall, narrowing his eyes and trying to figure out if that was the same pattern he saw on the Scotland Yard building-

"Let's go." Greg said, cutting off the officer's train of thought as he followed the tall figure into the darkness.

{=-=}

Sherlock leaned against another cold, concrete wall, the sound of car engines faint above him. He took another long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke to the air above him as he watched the police officers trying to find their way to him in the dark with their torches.

"Practically got night vision." He called out to them, their heads turning his way slightly. "When you live down here, you learn to see in the dark." He coughed slightly before lifting his cigarette to his lips once again.

Greg let his team follow him to this 'Sherlock' as they found their way, following the small flame of the cigarette using their torches. "If I may ask, why have you been helping us with our murders?" He asked, his hand on his gun. Always be prepared.

"No need for the gun, Detective Inspector." Sherlock shrugged, turning towards the people. "Mostly because I am bored. And also because I know things that you don't. You see, down here in the homeless network, we see everything. We are the eyes and ears of the city. Things get seen, things get talked about. I am just the one to put everything together. Mostly second hand. But undoubtably, you've seen me at a few crime scenes, trying to get a look." He trailed off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to hold back a loud cough. "This will be my seventeenth time helping you. I thought it was time for you all to know who your mystery source is." He shrugged, looking Dimmock up and down.

Dimmock furrowed his brow, watching the tall man. He didn't seem very trustworthy, nor very friendly. He wondered if it was a good idea to come down here in the first place.

"Officer Dimmock." Sherlock said frankly, reading the sewn on patch on his jacket. "Please tell me what you already know about the murders that occured here last night."

Lestrade nodded at Michael, telling him to explain what he knew.

"Well... We know that four people were shot-"

"Five." Sherlock said briefly, looking at Dimmock like he said nothing.

Sally furrowed her brow, glancing at Greg who was bewildered by his small statement. "How do you know that?" Lestrade asked quickly, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Officer Dimmock, please continue." He nodded slightly, letting his ciggie fall to the ground and he stamped it out. He lit a match from his pocket on the wall behind him, pulling another cigarette from one of his coat's pockets. It took it a bit to strike, then an equal amount of time to light.

"Um- Welll- Er... The murderer cleared off quickly, running by the spance of the footprints. His destination and identity, we don't know-"

"We don't know?" Sherlock laughed, huffing out a puff of smoke. "From the footprints left in the dirt and grime of down here, he was running north. We only know... You know... His height, his approximate weight, the size of his shoes." He started with a shrug. "Oh, and you have me. So, you know that he is about 6'2, sandy blonde hair, was carrying Derringer, shooting five people, clearing off, carrying a man over his shoulder." He said quickly. "Obviously some sort of bounty hunter. I would have done something... But... Well, you don't need to worry about what I was doing." He said, taking a deep breath and sighing slightly. That share of Raz's score was not enough. He craved, wanted, needed more.

Greg watching Sherlock, his jaw slack, shaking his head slighlty. He ran a hand over his gaping mouth, thinking. "Um... Excuse my asking, but why are you down here when you could be... Working for the force? You could be very useful."

Dimmock's head sharply turned to Lestrade. He didn't like this guy, and now, he was practically giving him a job. He walked over to Greg and pulled him away, out of earshot.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" He whispered harshly.

Greg shrugged, looking at Sherlock who was staring at them. "What? I was wondering if he'd join Scotland Yard." He said calmly with a shrug, looking back to Michael.

"Are you insane?! We don't know this guy. We don't know what or who he is working for. How do you know that he's not one of our killers? What if he knows all of this because he's part of it?!" He asked, the obvious panic in his hushed voice.

Sherlock still had an eyebrow raised at them before looking back at Sally. "You have questions." He said, taking a long drag.

Sally crossed her arms, looking at him with a confused expression. "How do you know this? If you hear things second hand, how do you put them together? What if they're not correct?"

Sherlock sighed, looking away from her. "So you're dressing up nicely for not just your job, but your secret liking as well. You may want to impress your head DI, but you want to impress him more." He said calmly, huffing out a puff of smoke.

"Excuse me, w-"

"Alright, alright. Settle down, everyone." Gregory said as he walked back over, standing in front of Sherlock.

Dimmock had an annoyed look on his face with his arms crossed, looking at Sherlock with a glare.

"Sherlock." Greg said with a nod. "How would you feel about working for the force?" He said hopefully. They needed this guy. He was better than all their officers in one. Multiplied by two.

The tall, lanky man thought for a moment. "Hm. No."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's rejection echoed through the halls, bouncing off the concrete and repeating itself, over and over, quieter and quieter. The rumbled of the cars above was the only sound after the echo finished. The members of the force all looked agitated, Dimmock more than the rest. "Psycopath..." He breathed, rolling his eyes as he kept his arms crossed, his glare still fierce.

"No? What do you mean no?" Gregory scoffed, looking around at the other officers. "You do know it is a privilage to be offered a spot in Scotland Yard. You don't just say-"

"No?" Sherlock interuptted. "Well I did just use the word, didn't I, detective inspector. Fancy that." He chuckled bitterly, rolling his eyes and taking another long drag of smoke.

Sally was getting antsy. "We're wasting our time." She groaned, looking around at the others. "Let's go."

Sherlock watched her with a quirked eyebrow, scoffing slightly. "Give me time, dear Sally. Be patient." He said, the smoke blowing out of his mouth with each word, dancing up and out of their view, eventually disappearing into the ceiling. "I may agree to work with... These people... Under a few conditions."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him. "Conditions? Are you trying to negotiate with us, Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, actually considering. This guy may have been acting like a pain, but he definitely was making sense.

"Yes. I am, in fact." He nodded, wiping his runny nose on his dirty coat sleve. "As you can see, I live down here with my people. The homeless network, as I have already stated. We are practically a family, living together." He said slowly. "This is my habitat. And as much as it is /great/ to live among the dirt and diseases," sarcasm leaking through his voice, "it would be a bit nice to actually have a place to stay that keeps me safe and gurantees an actual reliable souce of nutrition."

All of the Yarders cocked their heads to the side. "So, like a homeless shelter?" The head detective asked, shrugging.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking away for a moment. "I've been to every homeless shelter within a four hour walking distance. They're disgusting. Have you ever been in one? And I'm not just saying that because they've kicked me out." He shrugged.

Dimmock furrowed his brow. "So what exactly /are/ you suggesting, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you really need me to spell it out for you?" He asked, sighing dramatically. "An actual home where I can stay and be fed and have indoor plumming."

Greg looked from Sally to Dimmock to the two officers that were standing warily to the back of them. "So... Would being, like, a flatmate, with... Me, per say, count as an actual home?"

Sherlock blew the smoke out into his left sleeve as he coughed loudly. "That would suffice very well." He nodded, taking deep breaths.

Michael looked shocked. "Are you seriously considering taking in this maniac to your home? Really?" He said to Greg, not even caring to hush himself because Sherlock was there.

The man leaning against the wall as he puffed out another breath of smoke shrugged, taking no offence.

"I really am, yes. Would we have solved this case without him? No. If this is the only way for him to join Scotland Yard, then by god, I'm going to use it."

"Woah, woah." Sherlock frowned, holding out one hand. "I'm still not going to /join/ Scotland Yard. I'm going to help out as best as I can, but I refuse to be considered a Yarder." He shook his head.

Lestrade sighed. "Fine. That works with me. You get shelter, food, and indoor plumming, while we get information on murders. Perfectly sound." He didn't get why, but it seemed like trusting this man was the way to go. As for Dimmock, he found Sherlock practically repulsive.

Sherlock held out a hand for him to shake, Gregory taking it and shaking it firmly. "Great. I guess we'll leave now." He nodded, looking at all of the agitated officers before they walked out, a large, proud grin emerging onto Sherlock's face as they turned around.

{=-=}

Sherlock walked into the unfamiliar house, looking around. It had a friendly feel to it. It was a small town house, already three people full. Now there'd be a fourth. The walls were painted a dark green colour, wall paper up to hip height. It was a brown and white pattern, what looked to be some sort of flower repetition. There were mirrors on the walls with a gold frame around each, a large carpet on the floor. He looked up the stairs, seeing toy trains lining them. /Married, one boy child. Obvious small amounts of attention given to said child./ He thought to himself, following him into the welcoming kitchen through the

The cooking area was obviously desinged by the DI's wife. It was a light green colour on the walls, tan tile as a backsplash. He could see that the whole house was practically woman's work. The DI didn't seem like the type to have a rooster themed kitchen. On the window sill, there was a large sculpture of a rooster. The cookie jar next to the fridge was a rooster. One of the paintings on the wall was a rooster. He looked around with a frown, but decided this was better than the dirty and damp underground. He looked into the den area which had a large, black leather sofa to one wall, a flat screen telly on the other. The walls were a deep red and had different paintings of the country side. There was a small play area in one corner, but definitely not large enough for a child.

"So this is my home." Gregory said from behind him, causing Sherlock to flinch slightly before turning around. "Very lovely." He said plainly, feeling unfit to the house because of the dirty rags that were hanging off of him. "My wife is going to be coming home soon, and she isn't really too keen on the idea of you staying here. I would like you to maybe take a shower and try to wash off the smell of sewer and smoke from you." He said, hoping he'd comply.

Greg and his wife were not the happiest of couples. Yes, they tolerated each other and could at least live together without being at each other's throats all the time. There were traces of dents in the walls where plates had been thrown. They had a child and they supported each other, and that's what counted in their mind.

His wife was a secratary at a landscaping buisness. She worked long hours, same as her husband. They both made a fair amount of money to keep them afloat, but barely had enough time for their child, Lewis.

"Alright." Sherlock nodded. If he didn't desperately need a shower, and desperately wanted one, he would have said no. Just to get on the person's nerves. But he hadn't had a proper wash in months, and he was dying for one. "Where's my room?"

Lestrade headed out of the room to the foyer. "Follow me." He said, Sherlock trailing behind in the unfamiliar corridor.

They walked up the stairs, both of them stepping over the toys and different items that were on the stairs. "Your room is right next to Lewis's. My son. He's seven." He said, looking into his room.

The child's room was a dark blue with beige carpet. As anyone that wasn't blind could tell, he was obviously very into Doctor Who. There were multiple stuffed animals on the bed, ranging from Daleks, to Adipose, to the TARDIS. The bed sheets were made to look like the TARDIS doors.

Greg lead him into the room next to it. It was obviously made to be a guest bedroom. Sherlock walked in slowly, taking it all in. The walls were a dark brown, oak furniture to match it. Two windows were placed in the wall opposite of the door, draped with light green curtains. The bed was placed against the same wall the door was, with matching sheets to the draperies. The carpet was white, but discoloured in multiple places. There was another door that was a crack open, apparent to be the bathroom.

"This is your room, yeah." Greg said, leaning against the door frame as he watched Sherlock. "The loo's right through there, has a shower in there, a couple towels in there, and a tooth brush. Just the bare nessecities."

Sherlock nodded, opening up the door slightly with his bony hand. "This works." He breathed, taking off his coat which was ripped in several places, and threw it onto the bed. "Not very sorry to ask for so much, but clothing. I very highly doubt you'd want me around your wife and Lewis in the state I am in." He said, gesturing to his dirtied clothes.

Greg furrowed his brow, twisting his lips to the side. "Well, we'll go shopping tomorrow for some things, then." He said, running a hand through his graying hair.

The raggedy man walked into the bathroom completely now. "I'll just need some clothes to use for the night and tomorrow, then." He said to the other man, closing the door.

{=-=}

Sherlock watched as the water turned brown as it ran down his body, disappearing into the drain. It felt great to shower. You never knew what a privilage it was to have plumming until it was gone. He ran his hands through his soapy hair, rinsing out the dirt and grime. He forgot what colour his hair really was.

Once he had finished scrubbing ever inch of his body of the caked on mud, he got out and felt relieved. He wrapped a towel around himself that he got off of the back of the door. He stood in front of the mirror that was above the sink and frowned. He hadn't looked at himself in a true mirror in what seemed like weeks. He could see his ribs and his collar bone clear as day. His arms were practically just tooth picks. His hair was curly instead of matted, now. It was a strange feeling to be actually, completely and utterly, clean.

He dried himself off completely and walked into his bedroom, seeing a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt on the bed next to a pair of pyjama bottoms. He scoffed at the casual wear, rolling his eyes. Even for wearing the clothing he had been for the past few years, it was better than that. Reluctantly, he pulled on the clothes and felt the cleanliness of them, smelling the fabric softener. He would never fully admit it, but he was forever greatful to the DI and his family for accepting the homeless man into their home. He knew it would take a bit of getting used to, but it'd work.

"Why did you even bring a bum into our house, Gregory?!" A feminine voice yelled down the stairs and in the kitchen. "I thought you were kidding!"

"Obviously not, Laura! He's a great man. He needed a home, and we needed information at the Yard!" Lestrade, obviously, yelled back.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, his hands in his lap as he heard the two people yell at each other. He flinched slightly at their booms that echoed throughout the house, trying to drown them out. He heard the door to his room open slowly and creak, small footsteps cautiously stepping on the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he tried to escape to his mind palace. He had used it many times before to escape from the tragedy that was his life. It had gotten him disconnected from life many times before; ranging from parents fighting to fights in the underground. He didn't hear the small child walk into his make shift room.

"Who are you?" The little boy asked suddenly, standing in front of Sherlock in his footie pyjamas. "Are you the man that mummy and daddy are fightin' about?"

Sherlock's eyes opened as he heard the voice, looking down at him. He was only as tall as the door knob. He was a 4-year-old kid who just happened to show up where Sherlock was. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. And yes, I am. I'm going to be staying with you for a while."

Lewis pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you another one of mummy's friends?" He asked knowingly. " 'Cause mummy have lots of friends who come over, but none of them stay over." He shook his head and climbed up onto the bed, sitting next to Sherlock.

Of course, the genius was completely blanking. He had no idea how to deal with or talk to a child. He didn't have any younger siblings, and he never socialized with much of anyone. "I'm not one of mummy's friends, no. I'm a friend of your daddy's." Sherlock scooted a bit away from the boy, not knowing much else.

He nodded and shrugged. "That's okay. Daddy needs friends. He lonely sometimes," he said, putting his hands out and palms up as if to say, "It is what it is."

Sherlock only just noticed the stuffed animal in his hands. "What's that?" He recognized what it was, but forgot what it was from. It had been way too long. He was hoping that he'd bore the child to the point where it'd leave him alone and in peace. He flinched at more of the yells that were echoing through the home. Lewis seemed to be unaffected by them, seen as he had to deal with it on a daily basis.

"It's an Add-ie-pose," he said slowly, shoving it in Sherlock's face. "It's from Doct-ah Who." He smiled widely, like this was an accomplishment all in its own.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and pushed it away slowly. It was discolored in many places, and there were a few seams that were broken. "That's nice..." He trailed off, looking around. "So, do you like Doctor Who?"

It was like Sherlock had just pulled the trigger on a huge explosion. "I love Doct-ah Who!" The little boy exclaimed, standing up on the bed and jumping around, chanting that simple phrase over and over. He put emphasis on each word with each jump.

Sherlock stood off the bed, watching as some of the pillows jumped off the bed and the bed spread was moved around. "Yes, yes- That's grea-" He tried to say, but the boy kept going. "Could you ple-" He eventually gave up and grabbed the kid midair, placing him on the floor.

Lewis squealed loudly, laughing as he was set down. "Again! Again!" He giggled, jumping up and down. "Please?! That was so fun!" He climbed back onto the bed and kept going, waiting for Sherlock to pick him up.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and watched him, a small smile forming on his face. He didn't know that he would enjoy it so much, and his laughing made him happy for some reason. He'd have to research that later. "Of course I will." He reached up and grabbed Lewis, spinning them around once before setting him down. "Was that time fun?"

The little boy screeched loudly and nodded, grinning up at the tall man. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" He laughed loudly. "You so much fun!"

This went on for a few more times, his small smile growing larger. Both of the boys forgot about the fighting that went on downstairs, not even noticing the sound of a plate crashing to the floor. Sherlock never had a little brother, and his older was always resentful of him. He never had a chance to play with children before.

Lewis laid down on the bed after a few times, yawning as he stared up at the tall man. "I'm tired. Carry me to bed," he demanded sleepily, his arms lazily raised in the air. Sherlock smiled softly and grabbed him off of it, walking him towards the Doctor Who room.

Sherlock saw Mrs. Lestrade storm into her bedroom, slamming the door loudly. It made both the child and the adult jump a bit. He settled Lewis into his bed, covering him in stuffed animals.

Lewis giggled, his eyelids half drawn. "Thank you, Mister Sherlock. You fun. Way more fun than dada." He said it softly, starting to fall asleep.

"You're welcome, Lewis. Sleep well."

Sherlock turned off the lights and left the room quietly, heading back to his own. He was definitely in a better mood. Lewis was obviously rarely played with, and rarely cared about by his parents. He enjoyed having the play mate.

He settled back into his own room, changing into his pyjamas now. It seemed like a nice time to get into bed. He looked at the small alarm clock that rested on the dressers. 20:38. He peeled back the covers and got underneath the heavy comforter, liking the weight it gave. He curled up tightly on the mattress. It had been a very long time since he had slept in an actual bed, under an actual roof.

He fell asleep soon afterwards, the day's events catching up to him.

{=-=}

Gregory grabbed a blanket out of the small linen closet in the laundry room, grabbing throw pillows off of the sofas and the chairs. He was kicked out of the bedroom, yet again. Lauren would forgive him soon enough, and he'd be back up there the next night.

He settled on the too familiar feeling of the sofa cushions, making sure to get as comfortable as he could. He laid the blanket on top of him and closed his eyes, hoping to god that he'd get a decent amount of rest.

Tomorrow morning, he was taking Sherlock out to get clothing for himself so he didn't have to borrow the DI's. After that, they were headed to Scotland Yard. Sure, Sally and Dimmock didn't like Sherlock, but it wasn't their business.

Sherlock was Scotland Yard material. He was arrogant. He was smart. He was annoying. He was completely excellent. He had all that it took to even qualify for a spot on the force.

Lestrade shuffled around a bit in the mound of pillows, yawning. Soon enough, he was asleep in the dark living room.

{=-=}

Sherlock woke up several times during the night to the new noises of the foreign house. There was the sound of the boiler, the heater, and new sounds of cars on the paved road. He was used to the drips of water, the sounds of cars high above, and people fighting.

He finally decided to stop trying to sleep around six in the morning, sitting up in his bed as he looked around. The room was fairly boring and he had nothing to do. They'd need to get him some books and just a few things that he needed.

He hoped that experiments wouldn't be frowned upon.

It baffled Sherlock that these two people were married with a son. They obviously didn't love each other like they should, and they acted as if their son was more of a chore. It was obvious. Sherlock actually liked Lewis a lot. He reminded him of himself when he was younger. He loved to play around and have fun, but in the household he had grown up in, he didn't have much time to do so.

Sherlock found himself lulling back to sleep after a while, laying back down on the bed and curling up tightly on himself. He slowly drifted back off into the wonderful unconsciousness that was sleep.


End file.
